The Question
by Scrambled-Dry
Summary: After spending five months recovering in Italy, Batman returns to Gotham to find the Joker in severe distress following an attack by a mysterious red-headed man. The two must join forces to find the mysterious new villain and save their city, and the Joker wants Batman to break his rule...Batman/Joker slash, post-TDKR. Rated T for now, might be M later.


**Rewritten :)**

Before he got his scars, the Joker worked as a nurse at Gotham General. His grandmother's long-awaited death in Sydney came just in time for his transformation that summer, and upon his scar-free return eight years later all he had to do was put up with the sympathy. He became Nurse Jack again, telling himself he was transitioning back into society like a good little mental patient.

Reality hit him like a truck. Without his scars, he was Nurse _Jackie_, and not because he worked in the psych ward. In fact, he avoided that place. No, he was 'that hot Australian nurse.' He preferred Urgent Care because he rarely saw repeat patients. The ER was a close second because everyone was too busy to hit on him.

Then, the Fear Toxin victims came in screaming and trying (and often succeeding) to claw their eyes out. Haldol worked at first, but one night Haldol began making the patients _worse._ The head doctor refused to believe the Haldol could be tainted, despite the syringes being filled from the shipment that arrived _yesterday_. On his break, the Joker decided to test it.

He was right, and the doctor was _wrong._

He didn't want the stupid doctor and Scarecrow to win.

Big Brother descended on Gotham for the next three months and Scarecrow ended up in the newly remodeled asylum. Nurse Jackie became a celebrity. Commissioner Gordon gave him a medal. The new Mayor shook his hand. The city hailed him a hero.

On Christmas, nine years after his birth and a year after Scarecrow's second (or third if you count the kangaroo court) reign of terror, the Joker couldn't take it anymore. Batman was dead. Scarecrow was locked up forever, although that was probably a good thing. There was nothing left for him.

He stood in the pale moonlight, freezing slowly to death, the barrel of his favorite revolver against this temple.

"Don't do it."

He turned around slowly, revealing the hulking figure of -

"_Batman?"_

"Yes."  
The Joker fell to his knees, crying, and yelling at the moon. Batman sighed, and hugged the broken clown, not caring if he got stabbed in the ribs. He wouldn't blame the poor guy if he did.  
The Mob wanted money. Scarecrow terrorized everyone to get back at the high school bullies. Bane wanted to cauterize Gotham off the map as if the city was a gangrenous tumor on the Earth. The Joker wanted Gotham's citizens to open their eyes to the ugliness all around them, to think about how their actions affected others.

He dragged the Joker into the re-designed Tumbler. The Joker cried himself to sleep, and Bruce carried him into the Palisades.

Alfred sighed. "Is he alright?"

"He's sick and exhausted, Alfred. He needs me." Bruce set the Joker on the plush leather sofa, propped a pillow under his mane of dark blond curls, and pulled a quilt over his scrubs.

"I'd better make more cookies, then."

"I don't know if he eats cookies." Bruce said. The Joker was skin and bones already, and his tight jaw and furrowed brows hinted at a very disordered mind.

"You came back." The Joker rasped, eyes closed. "Why?"

"I saw you on the news."  
"You _recognized_ me?" He had slipped into his Joker accent again.  
"Yes."

"Why didn't anyone else?"  
"They weren't looking." Bruce said simply. "Something tells me you didn't consent to get your scars removed."  
"_Hell,_ no."

"Were you in Arkham?"  
"Eight years. Solitary. Then, one night, he paralyzes me. Drags me into the basement. Lasers them off, slaps green goop on the burns, then drags me into the trunk of his car. I passed out from the pain. Next thing I know I'm waking up in my old apartment. New clothes in the closet, scrubs, the paperwork for getting my old job back, all my favorite food in the fridge, he'd even washed my sheets and cleaned my bathroom. Except, he took green paint and wrote a big ugly question mark on the bathroom mirror."  
"Who is he?"

"The _ginga._"  
"He's a redhead?"  
"That's all I've got to insult him."

"What did his hair look like?"  
"Long, red, and _shiny_."  
"No idea, sorry."

The Joker polished off three cookies. "Give my thanks to the chef."  
"I'll tell Alfred."

"I want my scars back." He said darkly. "I'm so _sick_ of people thinking I'm _beautiful_. You were right. I'm ugly inside. I'm alone, no matter how nice people are to me. Because, if they _knew_ what I _think_, what I _feel_, what I _see_, they would not be nice to me. No one cares about me."  
"I care about you."

"You just want to use me. That's what everyone wants from me. I am _tired_, Bats. Exhausted. You should have just let me die. After all, I failed to prove my point, I'm ugly inside, and I'm all _alone_."  
Bruce could see the Joker slipping into another wave of delusion. "I didn't see what you wanted me to see. What you wanted _everyone_ to see. I do now. That's why I came back. I came back because you were _right._ You proved Dent was a sociopath. You proved the Mob owned the cops and lawyers. You proved Scarecrow is still that lonely, beat-down high school freshman. You proved the Mayor wanted a police state so he could have all the power. If Bane had come and you hadn't, Gotham would be a big smoking hole in the ground. You showed me, Gordon, the cops, _everyone_ just how resilient we are. You gave me a reason to be Batman, and when you disappeared -"

It occurred to the Joker his precious Batman had _no idea_ where he was all this time. "You didn't know."  
"No, I didn't know. I looked everywhere for you, and I didn't find you. Everyone told me you had escaped."

"Is that why you holed up in your room and went crazy?"  
"Yeah. I felt as if a piece of my soul had disappeared." Bruce immediately regretted that. It was the god-awful truth, but the Joker was in no shape to be in a relationship with anyone_._

"Y'know what the worst part was?"  
"No."  
"Every Friday, I'd hear dogs barking and whining down the hall. They were _therapy_ dogs. I wanted to pet one. Hell, I'd be happy just to see them. I love dogs."  
"Why'd you sic them on me?"  
"Those were the Chechen's dogs. He starved them. He beat them. They knew nothing except pain and aggression. So, I figured they should die fighting instead of being strapped to a table and injected with poison."

Bruce had seen how happy the Joker would have been to fall to his death, and how miserable he was with that gun to his head. "Joker, dogs don't care about how they die. Only we do."

"How do you know that?"  
"They don't have the brain power to know that."  
"They weren't sweet dogs, Bats. They were fighting dogs. Trained, tortured killers. They would have thought they were _defeated_ if they were tied to a table. Defeat. Helplessness. That's the last thing those dogs would have felt before dying. When you and SWAT killed them, they were fighting. The last thing they knew was bloodlust. All dogs are bloodthirsty deep inside, Bats. But, they don't know that anymore. They just want cuddles and yummy food and walks. The Chechen turned them into hungry monsters. And…hungry dogs ain't loyal."

"Do you want a dog?" Bruce said. Having an ethics debate with the Joker was dangerous. The Joker had managed to corrupt Dent in five minutes and –

"What are you thinking, Bats?"

Bruce shook his head. "Nothing. I'm just not going to argue with you about ethics because that's how you corrupt people."

"Ah, nice try, but there is something you want to tell me is, isn't there?"  
"Well, uh…"  
"Oh, the Great _Batsy_, lost for words!" He burrowed into the couch again. "Don't _taunt_ me."

"I don't want you to take this the wrong way."  
"Just. Say. It." He frowned. "Say you regret saving me. Say I'm a worthless –"  
"On Halloween, someone emailed me a video file of…you and Rachel…screwing around."  
The look on the Joker's face confirmed Bruce's suspicion. "I _never –"_

"I didn't think you did. The video was shot with a hi-def camera, and you don't have my new email."  
"That was _my_ house…my safe place. Fuck this shit, who is he? How'd he find me? What does he _want_ from me?"  
"I don't know. Rachel looked…happy."  
"She was. Nothing personal." The Joker said, his voice utterly devoid of anything human. "I wasn't."  
"Why?"  
"_Why_? Look, you can _handle_ the news that your husband-to-be is a split-personality sociopath _without_ fucking Gotham's worst nightmare. I did it to spite Dent. She was not a good fuck at all. Too loud."

"Too loud? You deal with explosions all the time."  
"Is that supposed to be a dirty joke?" The Joker said acidly. "You're 34, not 14."

"How old are you?"  
"34 as of Halloween."

"You were twenty five when you did…all of that."  
"Yes. A twenty-five year old paranoid schizophrenic who got Fear Toxin instead of his clozapine one flower-filled May morning." He sighed dramatically. "I had a flower box by my bedroom window. Daisies, Pansies, Johnny jump-ups, a white rose, and a red rose. I stored my meds in the medicine cabinet. They looked normal. I trusted them to drive the voices away. I took them, and the flowers grew bloodied eyeballs in their blooms and hands came out of the walls. Next thing I know, I'm waking up in bed like nothing happened. I called my doctor, and he said he needed to up the dosage. I went off the clozapine instead. Cold turkey. I don't recommend that."

"But the damage was done." Bruce said.

"I wish Scarecrow's mum had _dropped_ him on his head when he was a baby…over, and over, and _over…_"

"Do you always want to kill people?"  
"Yes. Except you. And Alfred. I wish I knew who made this tape! This creep _violated _me…"

"This sounds like a job for Batman."

"There's a new guy. Nightwing. He can't do shit."  
"I'd better teach him how to protect this city."  
"You know who you should teach first? _Robin_."  
"Who's Robin?"  
"This weird bloke in green tights. Says he's your _sidekick_. He also says I'm not the real Joker because the Joker _he_ knows got shot in the face and dunked in toxic chemicals. He also wants to visit a bar called the Iceberg so he can ask Oswald Cobblepot a few questions."

"I've never heard of the Iceberg, or Oswald Cobblepot. He might be a paranoid schizophrenic."

"Whatever. Get rid of him."

"Why'd you kill Rachel?"  
"I didn't."  
Bruce froze. "How?"  
"My bomb guy, Riddles, built those bombs, then stormed into my office. Said killing Dent or Rachel would accomplish nothing, and make me look like a terrorist. He said, 'Joker, you are not a terrorist. You are a messenger. If you torment and kill Dent or Rachel, your message will be lost.' I told him to get out, and the next time I challenged him I would kill him. Anyway, that was the last I saw of him _and_ the bombs. So I scratched that plan."  
"While you were in the holding cell…someone told you, didn't they?"

"A Maroni goon who wanted to work for me."

"No. Look, Bats, Maroni couldn't pull that off. He's a shoot-em-up-execution-style guy. _But,_ Maroni's goons say Maroni told them to do it. _Emailed_ the instructions. Now, what Mob boss wouldn't pass up the ah, _street_ _cred_ of blowing up the DA?"  
"Al Capone killed the mayor…"

"Yeah, but Capone didn't have any creativity. But…like I told Dent, I was sitting in Gordon's cage. Yeah, I planned to get caught so I could blow up that goon, but it was sheer luck I learned about –" He made air quotes. "_Maroni's_ plan."  
"Okay…so Riddles orchestrates _your_ plan as Maroni, who doesn't have a message and therefore him being a terrorist doesn't really matter. It sounds like Riddles was _saving_ your reputation. Or, trying, too."  
"Yeah, and I think he snuck into my camp and messed with the ferry bombs. I am the Joker. I do not _troll_ people."

"But, those passengers are alive, and will remember the lesson you taught them."  
"The lesson _Riddles_ taught them." He sucked in a breath. "Y'know, Riddles was a _ginga._"  
"Joker, is it possible your scars were infected?"  
"They were kinda achey and warm. I had a…fit and scratched them real bad."  
Bruce bit his lip. "Joker, Riddles probably saved your life."

"Infections."  
"There's superbugs now. Hospitals are hotspots."  
"I took showers and kept my cell clean!"  
"Yes, but it could have been on your jumpsuit, your pillow, your towels, anything. And you're malnourished."  
He sniffed. "I should have died as the Joker."  
"You still are the Joker. You make people see the truth. You can do that even more effectively."

The Joker didn't speak for a full minute. The Joker turned toward the back of the couch, and screwed his eyes shut. "You don't _care._ No one does."

"Who tells you this crap? Because it is crap. I care about you. I came back here for you. I came back because I didn't want you to kill yourself. You have so much more to offer Gotham."

"I'm a paranoid schizophrenic."  
"You can't take your meds because of the Fear Toxin."

"Well, I can't take what _worked._ I'm taking one of the new ones. It cuts out the visuals but I still hear voices. I also want to kill people. Painfully. _Slowly._ I haven't since I got out, but _they_ _hurt_ _me._ I just want it to _stop. _I can't even eat because the new drug makes me want to puke. I need to take more but I'll be throwing up all day instead of the morning if I take any more."

"I'm sorry." Bruce said. "How can I help?"  
"You could let me _die_."  
"That wouldn't be helping you. This will pass. I know it doesn't seem like it, but it will. I'll be right here with you."  
The Joker just burrowed into the couch and slept. Bruce watched over the Joker, a guardian angel, the hero the Joker always needed but did not always want.

The Joker believed everyone wanted to use him. The Joker was highly intelligent, but his schizophrenia got in the way. Who would want to use the Joker, and for what?  
Sex was the first thing that came to mind. The Joker had no idea how to make _friends_, let alone be in a relationship. He also used sexual attraction, or at least the appearance of it, to manipulate others. With Batman it was the 'You complete me' stuff. Bruce knew that to be genuine. However, the Joker did _not_ genuinely enjoy seducing and having sex with Rachel, although he was physically able to perform. Had he made that sex tape he would have released it to the public.

Bruce shook his head. He couldn't think anymore tonight.

Bruce woke up to find the Joker gone.

"Alfred!" He yelled, wiping the drool off his chin.  
He found Alfred hanging from the chandelier in the kitchen, a red, dripping smile carved in his face. The far wall said,

_The cookies were terrible!_

Bruce screamed.

"What the hell is going –" The Joker stopped dead. "Um, I don't _hang_ people, and I ate all the cookies. They were delicious."

Bruce staggered. The Joker caught him. "C'mon, the killer might still be in – he shoved Bruce to the floor as a knife whizzed above them, narrowly missing the top of their heads. "Yeah, he's definitely in the house. ALRIGHT YOU RAT, SHOW YOURSELF!"

The froze as a tinkling laugh echoed through the kitchen. "So, Bruce Wayne and the Joker are gay buddies. What are you going to do next, become cowboys and move to Australia?"

"_Rachel_." Bruce said. "Rachel, _why_, why did you."  
"Well, I wasn't expecting the Joker to be here. Aren't you a _cutie_ now?"  
"That's _it_." The Joker withdrew a knife from his borrowed jeans, jumped to his feet, and threw all the momentum behind the knife. It must have hit something because she shrieked.  
"Yeah, try throwing a knife with that arm." The Joker crowed. "Do you want –"  
"No, I don't want to know how you got your scars because YOU DON'T HAVE THEM ANY MORE._"  
"_Well, I know –"  
Bruce jumped to his feet, punched Rachel in her wounded arm, and threw her across the room.

This was the difference between Bruce and the Joker, the one thing keeping them apart.  
"Bruce, she knows about us. Kill her."

"No. I'm not like her."

_Not like you._  
In that split second, he saw Rachel looking pleadingly at the Joker. It all sunk in, but not before the Joker put him in a chokehold.

Knife in hand, he stalked over to Rachel. He crouched over her. "Why so serious?" He crooned. "Why. So. _Serious_?"  
"Jack, please."  
"You want me to save you?"  
"I'll do anything, just don't kill me. I love you. I really do."

He kissed her, cradling her face, running his fingers through her luscious brown curls. She could give him what his Batsy wouldn't.

"Alright. But no more gay Australian cowboy references. I'm not gay. I'm trying to _corrupt_ that freak."  
"It's from a book I'm reading. I keep picturing the main character as you."  
"I'm _flattered_." He said sourly. "Get up. We'll fuck at my place."

He kicked Bruce hard in the ribs on the way out. He'd never admit, especially to Rachel, his sexual obsession with the playboy billionaire. He wondered if Bruce knew, or suspected, his past.

He wasn't one of those psychos who raped and murdered hitchhikers. In fact, he'd never raped anyone. He convinced _hundreds_ of teenagers, and adults when he hit the magic one-eight, to cheat with him. He got high off the power, not the orgasms, although he physically functioned just fine. Asexual, that's what Riddles called it. Riddles had a name for everything. Not a label, he said. A name. Everything had a name, what mattered is what you associated with the name.

He adapted to each of his lovers. He listened. He gave them what they wanted. He had two rules: condoms, and everyone got tested. He wouldn't endanger himself. He also wouldn't take any abuse.

He empowered anyone who crossed his path. He told them to accept themselves. Many came to him crying when the world shut them out, but he told them, 'well, are those fuckers really worth your time?' He taught them the real value of money (nothing). He taught them to live in the moment.

The one thing he did not like about his work was _noise._ He lied to Bruce about everything else, putting on the crazy schizo act for the idiot.  
Now, the _ginga_ needed to go.  
He woke up early. He had taken vacation time to kill himself, and now he had a second chance.

"Why'd you kill Alfred?" Rachel asked in the middle of the night.

"To break the Bat."  
"Do you love him?"

"He is the one thing standing in our way."  
"Why not just kill him?"  
"It's a game, Ray-ray. And I will win." He kissed her forehead. The bitch was _so_ easy to manipulate. He wanted a challenge. "Go to sleep."  
She kissed the hollow of his neck. "You need to eat more."  
"I also need to _sleep_."

"Oh, alright. But, you are eating a big breakfast tomorrow."  
"Whatever." He fake-mumbled, although he was still very wide awake.

He thought about choking her. Or smothering her.

He looked at her plain features, his fingers itching for a knife.

Rachel woke up with her face and body on fire. She screamed for Jack, but she couldn't open her mouth. She passed out from the pain.

Joker woke up, too, his face on fire again. He saw moonlight shining into a dark room, glinting off long, red hair and a green velvet fedora. He couldn't see the man's eyes, they were covered with goggles.

"You're awake." The man's voice was high and slightly cracked, sort of like Voldemort trying to sound like Michael Jackson.  
The Joker sat up, realizing he was lying on a rather comfy bed. "You –" He smiled, it was considerably easier than before but no less painful. "gave me my scars back." Talking wasn't as much trouble.  
"Yes. They were infected after you hallucinated. That was Scarecrow's little joke."  
"Not funny."  
"Well, neither are your jokes. Don't touch, or I will declaw you."

"You mean pull out my fingernails?"  
"Cat's claws are actually part of the last digit."  
"You'll cut off my fingers."  
"At the last knuckle."

"Guess you don't like cats."  
"They _eat_ my babies."  
"What are those?"  
"None of your business."  
"Rodents or birds?"  
"None. Of. Your. Business."  
"Okay. Ah, thanks. Are you Riddles?"

"No. Riddles is my brother. He is dead. I am The Ridd-_ler._"

"Nice to meet you, Mr. Riddler."  
"Riddler. I hate the Mr and Mrs and Miss construction." He pushed his goggles up higher on his short, freckled nose, then leaned against the wall. Something was _off_ about him, but despite all his analytical efforts, he couldn't figure it out.

"Where's Rachel?"

"In the other room."  
"Alive or dead."  
"Somewhere in between." He stepped across the hardwood, his wingtips making no sound on the hardwood. "There is food downstairs. Help yourself. I recreated the stitching pattern, but the cuts are clean and precisely deep enough to need stitches but not cause unnecessary damage. Give them eight weeks to heal, in the meantime you can stay here."

The Joker inspected the bathroom, finding two brass electric lanterns hanging from the ceiling in place of fluorescents. They threw shadows everywhere. Maybe Riddler had really sensitive eyes. Or maybe he was a vampire.

In Gotham, nothing was impossible.

Hideous swirly-pattern Victorian-era wallpaper coated the walls. The shiny brass (probably steel painted to look brass) tub had claw feet. More of that migraine-inducing swirly-pattern covered the shower curtain. He showered, hoping the labels were right on the antique brass bottles. He smelled like sandalwood when he stepped out. His reflection was _just the way he liked it._ He brushed his teeth, combed his hair, and discovered the head of the electric toothbrush was the only _normal_ thing in the entire bathroom. Then, he discovered he didn't have any clothes.

A knock on the door startled him. He wrapped an emerald-hued towel around his hips, then opened the heavy door a crack.  
Rachel stood there, leather gloved hands holding a bundle of clothes tied with a green silk ribbon.

Except, it wasn't Rachel. In place of her left eye rested a neatly stitched X. A patchwork of brass, circuitry, and wires lay over her right eye. The device formed a crude prosthetic eye that went back to her brain. She was bald beneath the white Victorian maid cap that tied under her chin in a neat bow. She wore a brown long-sleeve shift dress that hit her ankles, matching slippers, and a white apron.

But worst of all were the wires holding her mouth shut, just enough that she could breathe. Below her lower lip, the wires had tiny balls. Like lip piercings, so she could eat.

The care taken to avoid infection and malnutrition meant Rachel wasn't a short-term project. Riddler would make repairs and alterations to keep her alive and functioning, without any regard for her humanity.

"Thank you." The Joker forced out. He shut the door, dressed, and jumped two stories into the front garden. Riddler had given him jeans, hoodies, and sneakers from his apartment, as well as his wallet and burner phone. Enough to get away from the crazy mad scientist in the crazy Victorian house in the Narrows.

The Joker wasn't so much scared as disgusted. Riddler was like Scarecrow except with old-fashioned machines. _He_ probably poisoned the Haldol!

He hated to say it, but he needed Batsy.

Batsy hated him.

Three hours later, he was comforting Batsy. In his vulnerable state, Batsy had believed the lies. Tears dripping down his face.  
"Joker, are you _sure_ you didn't hallucinate Riddler and Rachel?"  
"I'm sure. I don't hallucinate stuff like that. If I had killed her, believe me, I would be _saying_ that."

_As soon as his face heals, I'm getting Dr. Elliot to remove the scars. Safely, and painlessly. He's been through enough. And, I'm getting him back on his meds. _

"Then, you did the right thing getting out of there. What's the address?"

"404 Query Street. It looks like a haunted house."  
"That's in Scarecrow's old neighborhood. All of them look like haunted houses."

"This one has more brass. The front gates have a lock shaped like a question mark. Oh, and you _did_ check on Scarecrow, right?"

"Yes. He's locked up."

"Can I come with you? In the Batmobile?" He batted his eyelashes. "Pwetty pweese?"  
"It's called the Tumbler."  
"Man, I hope you don't _drink_ driving that thing."  
"I don't drink. And…yes, you may come with me."  
"What about Alfred?"  
"I buried him in the backyard." More tears.  
"I'm sorry, Bruce."  
Bruce, being so emotionally disturbed, believed him.


End file.
